Poetry Is A Way Of Taking Life

I Have Wished A Bird Would Fly Away, And Not Sing By My House All Day; Have Clapped My Hands At Him From The Door When It Seemed As If I Could Bear No More. The Fault Must Partly Have Been In Me. The Bird Was Not To Blame For His Key. And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.

Oh, Come Forth Into The Storm And Rout And Be My Love In The Rain.

If The Writer Does Not Cry, The Reader Does Not Cry.

And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.

Home Is The Place Where, When You Have To Go There, They Have To Take You In.